


Caminante

by linana (carpediorma)



Category: Utopia (TV 2013)
Genre: Time Loop, but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:41:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27015193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carpediorma/pseuds/linana
Summary: Wilson isn’t dead, isn’t tied up and he’s got a gun.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 4





	Caminante

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a while ago and I honestly can't remember where it was going. Also, I haven't seen the second season yet.  
> English isn't my first language, so yeah.  
> Thanks for reading!

It's always different. It’s always different, but also the same, and Lee wishes he could articulate it better, put to use some of the big words written all over the books he’s read throughout his life. Nothing has prepared him for this. 

He’s isn’t a man of greys, he isn’t comfortable with in-betweens. Things are black or white, life is or it isn’t. 

Lee doesn’t like unfinished business. He’s good at what he does, he’s committed to his craft. You put a bullet through someone’s head, you cut some limbs and watch the blood run. It’s easy and it’s _done_.

Wilson isn’t any of those things. Wilson isn’t dead, isn’t tied up and he’s got a gun. Without enough time to even recognize it, Lee isn't in control anymore and once things are done, they’re done for _him_.

Wilson Wilson —the iteration of his name has stopped sounding ridiculous as Lee is beginning to think it might be some kind of sign— kills him every time. 

Wilson Wilson (the same) shoots him, incapacitates him with a chair, throws a can or two at Lee (but different) and he manages to kill him every time (the same, but different). 

The first time, Lee dies as his pierced lungs uselessly attempt to function. The whole area of the bullet’s impact is numb, he doesn’t feel anything. What he does feel is the way his throat tightens and constricts as he tries to breathe, how light-headed he becomes within a few minutes. 

In and out, in and out. 

The second time, Wilson hits him with a can as he’s climbing the stairs to escape. Lee stumbles and hits his head against the metallic stairs. The kicks come fast enough that he can feel the pain before he drifts off. 

Up and down.

Up and down. 

The third time, Wilson hits him with the gun, then gauges his eyes out. He doesn’t possess Lee’s finesse, goes absolutely berserk. An eye for an eye.

Wilson Wilson. 

Lee wonders if this Wilson it’s the same Wilson in the way he’s the same Lee; he wonders if every time it happens, Wilson gathers enough information about where he’ll stand, what his moves will be and that’s how he manages to kill him every time, despite his eyes. Or lack thereof. 

Being him —the same Lee— doesn’t do him any good. Every time, he climbs down the stairs and finds Wilson untied, ready to attack. The feeling of surprise is the same, he’s noticed, although he knows what will happen as soon as he wakes up. 

It starts the same, as well. He arrives and tortures Wilson. There’s no other way around. No attempt of stopping himself has been successful. He goes through with it every time, the pleasure he feels is the same, too. It’s in his nature, perhaps. 

His father used to say he would never change, with the ever-present disgust that percolated every word he ever directed at him. Lee never found it to be a bad thing, he treasured the implicit promise in the idea of remaining the same forever: to know who he is, to know he would always be it. His father cared about him, if inadvertently. 

If it’s some celestial revelation to show him his wrongdoing, he’s perfectly aware. If it’s some kind of trick from the universe to make him realize he’s not free and that his every move has been precedently decided and traced —some kind of Sci-fi take on what many sociologists vehemently write about— he doesn’t need it. 

Lee has worked as a hired assassin for _years_ , abiding by his bosses’ orders and following his victims’ trails for too long to maintain any illusion about his own autonomy. A Spanish writer once wrote that there’s no path, that you make the path as you go. He was a poet and Lee is a killer, it’s only natural that their views don’t align. 


End file.
